


It Comes Back to You

by Ginger_puff



Series: Who We Are [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor is good with kids, Crayons, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Kidfic, Reed isn't a jerk, Sumo is a drool monster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 17:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15369345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginger_puff/pseuds/Ginger_puff
Summary: The presence of a child in the station is rare, but Elsie in particular seems to puzzle the officers.While most have had the decency to observe from afar, four times now someone has ‘passed by’ with the intent of getting a closer view. One such brazen sergeant had even openly stared before succumbing to Lieutenant Anderson’s harsh glare."Come on, Connor! Let's draw!"





	It Comes Back to You

**Author's Note:**

> Edited because AO3 formatting was rude.

“All right. You can sit here until we’re done. Sound good?”

Detective Ben Collins. Connor disconnects from the terminal. “Good afternoon, detective,” he greets pleasantly. Collins sends him a quick, harried nod before approaching Hank’s desk.

Quietly, he says, “Hank, listen buddy, you gotta watch this kid for me.”

 _A kid?_ Connor stands halfway, peering over their desks. A young girl stands nervously beside Collins’ desk, looking around the station with wide eyes.

 

_ >Connecting…Sync initiated _

_ >Sync in progress…Sync complete _

_ >Processing data… _

MARTINEZ, Elsie

Born: 08/03/2031

 

“Huh?” Hank grunts, only now giving Collins his full attention.

“Jeremy needs me in interrogation so he can go pick up Halvorson’s guy. The dealer.”

“Let the R.I. guys handle it,” he dismisses, turning back to the terminal screen.

“They are, but someone’s gotta watch the kid.”

Hank squints at Collins before leaning back in his chair to look behind the detective. “Nope. No way. I’ve already got this asshole to look after,” he hisses, jerking a thumb in Connor’s direction.

Connor reflects that the opposite is also true. Most of the time. Sometimes.

“Come on, Hank. It’ll just be for an hour,” Collins pleads.

Why bother me with this shit? Go ask Karen.”

“She’s at South today and you, well,” he falters.

Hank stares incredulously at him, then deliberately turns back to his terminal and slides on his headset. “Have a nice day,” he bites out.

Connor smoothly rises from his seat, straightens his tie, and rolls the chair neatly under his desk. While Collins winds up for another attempt to persuade Hank, he passes around them both to stand in front of the girl. She watches him approach, arms hugged across her chest. Behind them, Hank and Collins’ hushed argument grows heated.

Connor smiles at her, extends his hand. “Hello. My name is Connor, I’m-” he pauses, considering, “I’m an android assigned to the Detroit Police Department. I help the detectives here solve crimes.” It’s true, and it feels right. Better by far than every other time he’d introduced himself. _The android sent by CyberLife._

Her eyes immediately flick to his blue LED. She hesitates briefly before taking his hand.

“I’m Elsie.”

They shake. His hand almost completely envelops her own. Connor reduces his grasp to 9%.

“Detective Collins said you’ll be waiting here for some time.” A query of her name through his connection to the DPD network reports that Elsie’s mother, Janelle Martinez, has been detained on possession of red ice with intent to distribute as well as for accessory to murder. Detective Collins’ estimate of approximately sixty minutes was excessively conservative. Connor concludes he was lying.

“Do you like cartoons?”

She nods.

“I have access to over 4,000 episodes of content appropriate for your age,” he offers.

Her small brow creases in confusion.

A quick sort by popularity indicates the top five most likely to appeal to a seven year old girl. Considering the purple horse print of her summer dress, he asks, “How about this one?”

The brightly colored opening sequence of a cartoon about ponies plays on his hand display. It surprises a tiny gasp from her. She stares at his hand, then looks up to meet his eyes. She’s smiling.

“That’s so cool.”

Connor matches her smile. It lights something pleasant and warm in his chest. He grabs Collins’ padded chair and rolls it beside the spare plastic one used for visitors.

“Here,” he pats it twice and sits down in the smaller one.

The chair is wide enough for Elsie to comfortably sit cross-legged. Connor lays his arm between them and turns his wrist so she can watch the show. It is not dissimilar to sitting near Hank on his worn couch watching tv together. He wonders if Elsie likes dogs.

The metallic creak of Hank leaning back in his chair draws Connor’s attention. He’s facing the pair, arms crossed and a strange expression on his face.

Connor frowns inquiringly, but Hank simply huffs a laugh and turns back to his work.

Following the lieutenant’s lead, Connor calls up the forms awaiting his review. Many of the androids that had previously served in the DPD had chosen not to return, which provides him with ample cases to review and requests for analysis to fulfill. To be so useful after months of stagnation, settling into a routine of domesticity at Hank’s home until he was allowed to return to work, is gratifying. It quickly consumes his processors.

Except for when, approximately 57 minutes later, Elsie snakes a hand under his arm and rests her head on his shoulder.

His LED stutters yellow, identifying the surging rush of affection it causes as wonder.

ELSIE MARTINEZ Status - WARM

  


***

  


The presence of a child in the station is rare, but Elsie in particular seems to puzzle the officers.

While most have had the decency to observe from afar, four times now someone has ‘passed by’ with the intent of getting a closer view. One such brazen sergeant had even openly stared before succumbing to Lieutenant Anderson’s harsh glare.

Connor is deeply offended on her behalf.

So when Detective Reed approaches, his LED flashes a warning red.

“Woah, sh- I mean shoot, Terminator. Chill out with the death glare.” Reed holds his hands up in placation.

“What do you want, Reed,” Hank drawls.

The detective huffs indignantly and, with previously undemonstrated restraint, he ignores the lieutenant entirely.

Connor is baffled.

“Just fu- _freaking_ take this.” He tosses a small box into Connor’s lap.

Frowning, Connor picks it up for inspection. 64 Crayon Colors. Sharpener included.

“My niece is about her age,” he nods towards Elsie, who has gently taken the box of crayons from Connor to open it herself. “Kids like coloring.”

Under Connor and Hank’s combined scrutiny, Reed reddens and rubs at the back of his neck. If it were possible, Connor would suspect he’d been replaced by a different Gavin Reed altogether.

“Had ‘em from the last time she visited,” he mumbles. The box had been unopened before Elsie took it. Each crayon inside still has a machine-perfect point.

Elsie beams brightly, “Thank you!”

Connor smiles fondly at her, then the flustered detective. “Yes. Thank you Detective Reed.”

Reed gapes at him before turning on his heel and beating a hasty retreat with a muttered, “How the hell do you handle that shit, Anderson?” to Hank.

“Come on, Connor. Let’s draw!”

  


***

  


They are sitting in the space between Hank and Collins’ desks, surrounded by piles of more paper than Connor has ever seen in his admittedly short life.

Elsie agrees.

“You’re only ten months old?!” She exclaims, shocked. “But that’s like, still a baby.”

Hank snorts.

“Androids do not require the same physical and mental developmental phases as humans to achieve maturity,” Connor explains placidly.

Elsie accepts this statement with a hum, returning to her current project: a velociraptor-mermaid hybrid.

Connor deliberates which of the three available shades of brown would be most faithful to Sumo’s fur.

“Do you think I should give her wings, Connor?”

His LED blinks yellow.

“‘The arm bones of velociraptors have a row of bumps identical in size and shape to the quill knobs of living birds: the anchor points for big wing feathers,’” he recites. “However, I’m not sure how beneficial they would be to a semi-aquatic raptor.”

Elsie taps a crown against her lips. “They’d have to be waterproof.”

Connor considers. “Agreed.”

  


***

  


“Is that your dog?” Elsie asks, mouth half-full of chocolate sprinkle donut.

Hank had grudgingly agreed to part with one in exchange for their accumulated artwork so far, bemoaning the combined power of their ‘puppy eyes’. Connor feels a deep sense of pride that his coaching proved effective.

“His name is Sumo.”

“Sumo,” she repeats. “He’s so cute! Is he really that big?”

“Yes. He’s a St. Bernard.”

“Big dogs are the best. They drool a ton _and_ they let you lay on them.”

“Sumo is very comfortable,” Connor confirms.

“Do you have any pictures?”

“Sure thing, kid,” Hank answers and opens a drawer in his desk to pull out the old one he keeps of puppy-Sumo passed out from playing in the backyard. He hands it to her.

“His paws are _huge_.”

Hank barks a laugh, taking back the picture. “Yeah, he’s a real monster.”

 

_ >Searching databases...Optimal Content Found _

_ >Formatting...Complete _

 

Connor holds out his hand. It plays recordings of Sumo from his memory. Sniffing the air on a walk, chomping snow, sudsed up for a bath, a particularly good frisbee catch, drool arcing as he shakes his face, snoring loudly on the couch between Connor and an equally loud Hank.

Elsie giggles, taking Connor’s hand and pulling it closer. “He snores like a bear!”

“He does.” Connor smirks and leans in conspiratorially to stage whisper, “So does Sumo.”

“Funny, Connor.” Hank mutters. 

“Oh, that’s me!” Elsie laughs with delight, pointing to the small figure between Connor and Sumo. “And that’s…” She purses her lips in thought, then smiles excitedly and points to Hank.

“Lieutenant Anderson,” Connor supplies.

“You drew him smiling, but he seems kind of grumpy.”

“Hey now!” Hank cries. Connor can hear the playfulness in his voice, but looks just to be sure. The lieutenant wears an exaggerated frown, but is obviously struggling to not laugh.

“Is he your dad?” Elsie asks.

It’s a harmless question, but Connor stalls. Hank is Hank, which means that candid discussions about feelings or ‘emotional shit’ are, as a rule, only conducted over excessive amounts alcohol or blood. Or thirium, as the case may be.

He’s called Connor ‘son’ several times, and Connor called Hank ‘dad’ once after he had nearly bled out during a case. He’d even said he loves Hank, but in the weeks since then Hank has never reciprocated the declaration.

There are several possible explanations. Most probable is Hank’s devotion to his deceased son.

Connor understands. He _does._

Elsie mistakes his silence for a refusal to answer and solemnly puts her hand on his knee for a moment before returning to her drawing.

 

> _Analyzing...Complete_

_Elsie Martinez. Mother: Janelle Martinez_

_Father: Gabriel Martinez. Deceased OCT 2037._

  


***

  


He’s in the break room pouring a glass of water for Elsie when the notification pings onto his display. Janelle Martinez has been arrested on all noted charges. Child Protective Services is en route to collect Elsie for placement into foster care.

Approximately 4.2 hours have passed. Hank had suggested “taking the kid out to get some real food,” although his judgement of what constitutes ‘real food’ is historically dubious at best. Connor had been prepared to advocate for a well-balanced meal. And then maybe ice cream.

Now they have, at best, two minutes left.

Connor walks the path back to Collins’ desk automatically, giving Elsie her water with a smile he doesn’t feel. Quickly he turns to sit on Hank’s desk, leaning close to not be overheard. “Lieutenant.”

He jumps. “Shit, Connor. Do I need to put a bell on you?”

“Elsie’s primary caregiver has been arrested.”

Hank sobers, a knowing look in his eyes. “Does the kid have any other family?”

“No.”

“So she’ll have to go to foster care.” He sighs heavily, dragging a hand across his face.

Connor stares intently.

Hank stares back.

“We could-”

“No, Connor.”

“Why not?” he demands, rising in agitation.

“I like the kid, too. She’s a nice girl. But taking care of a child is a lot of work.”

“I would take care of her,” he says earnestly. “Please, Hank.”

“There’s no legal precedent for an android fostering a human child.”

“Then _you_ could-”

“I’d be denied,” He states with finality.

Something cold and alien coils tightly in his chest. “But-”

“You could’ve just played that cartoon on Ben’s terminal, Connor. Why are you so attached to this girl?”

Not for the first time, he’s at a loss. Why _is_ he so attached to Elsie? Hank’s right. It would have been more efficient to provide her with a source of entertainment while he continued working. The past few hours have been completely unproductive, even his subroutines focused singulary on predicting Elsie’s needs. His gaze falls to Hank’s desk and the neatly stacked pile of their drawings. His attempted recreations. Her childish whims.

When had he allowed himself to believe that she would come home with them? That they could lay against Sumo together after dinner, Hank lounging on the couch and a game playing on tv. That he could download a database of bedtime stories to read to her, or hear ones of her own invention. Hank might remember some good ones.

He replays how it felt to hold her hand securely in his, the feel of her delicate fingers, the softness of her hair on his neck as she leaned against his shoulder.

His throat constricts.

“I don’t know,” he lies.

Mercifully, Hank doesn’t call him out on it.

And suddenly he’s _furious_. Feeling, as if for the first time, the oppressive vastness between who he is and who he is allowed to be in spite of everything Markus fought for, everything Connor risked. The urge to rip the red LED from his head with his bare hands is so sudden and violent it nearly overwhelms him. They clench into fists at his sides.

 _It’s not fair_.

Hank begins to say something, face distraught, but Connor ignores him. His attention locks on the pair of women in starched business suits who are being led by Detective Collins to his desk. To Elsie.

He does not greet them.

The women draw Elsie into the conference room where presumably her transfer into the state’s custody will be explained.

“How’d everything go?” Collins asks.

“Not now, Ben,” Hank snaps, his eyes fixed on Connor. “Give us a minute.”

Collins grumbles but does as asked.

Hank leverages himself out of his chair to stand face to face with Connor. “There’s nothing you can do for her, son,” he says gently. “She’s going to leave here with CPS. That’s going to be scary for a little girl like her.”

He leans forward and plants both hands firmly on Connor’s shoulders forcing their eyes to meet. “You get to choose how you say goodbye.”

The words cut through his anger like a scalpel. Connor opens his mouth, unsure of what to say when Hank is so close and looking at him with such empathy and kindness and open, bleeding pain. Connor stands stricken. Because what wouldn’t Hank give for that opportunity?

Elsie and the two women emerge from the conference room. Hank releases Connor as the girl walks to them.

Connor kneels. “Time to go?”

She nods, looking down at her shoes. “I guess.”

They stay there, locked in silence until Connor smiles, pouring all his heart into it.

“I enjoyed playing with you today.”

“Me too,” she replies, smile equally sincere. “You’ll have to come over and draw with me again!”

He can tell she knows it won’t happen.

“I’d like that. Very much.”

She hugs him, face tucked into his neck. He gently places one hand on her back, the other cradles her head. Too soon she pulls away, hands him a folded up piece of paper, and returns to the two CPS workers. Connor watches her all the way to the station’s glass double-doors.

“What’d she give you?” Hank asks.

Connor unfolds the paper. It’s a drawing of him and Elsie holding hands. They’re both smiling.

His face is wet. Distantly, he realizes he is crying. It’d be shocking if he could feel anything beyond the dull ache of _loss, loss, loss_.

Hank pulls him into a tight hug while he cries, a hand cupped protectively against the back of his neck

“That was a good thing, kid,” he whispers fiercely. “A damn good thing.”

He presses a kiss into Connor’s hair. 

“I love you, son.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> How is my fluff turned angst turned hurt/comfort longer than my actiony semi-casefic hurt/comfort? HOW?
> 
> Also, Hank buys Connor a frame for Elsie’s picture and it’s the first personal item he puts on his desk.
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you have more father-son ideas for these two drop it in the comments or on my Tumblr (a-gingerpuff)! Or just let me know your thoughts on the story. Detroit: Become Human has pretty much taken over my life right now.


End file.
